8th Grade
by
Cole Parker
Part 1 of 3
Chapter 1
So I knew I shouldn't do it. You get that feeling sometimes––you just know it's a mistake to do something and then you go ahead and do it anyway, and of course you were right, and it was wrong, and it ends up just like it should, with you embarrassed or humiliated or in deep shit with someone or hurt or some such crap. And you don't even feel that upset because you knew that was how it was going to end up when you did it. That's just the way it works.
And it really isn't that bad to be humiliated. Hell, I'm in middle school––humiliation is a daily way of life. You learn to deal with it. You trip and your books fly out of your hands just when you want to look cool, you spring a boner just before you're called up to the blackboard, you get bumped in the cafeteria just when you've got your head leaning way back and are you're about to drink the last of the chocolate milk in the carton and are wearing a white tee shirt, you forget your jock strap and the coach has to know why in front of the whole gym class and you don't want to say your mother forgot to throw it in the dryer it but he keeps talking about it and everyone ends up staring at your crotch thinking there's nothing under your thin gym shorts but you, you get an F on the math quiz because you were thinking about how to avoid the jerk in your science class who told you he was going to break your arm in three places when he saw you today and maybe drop you out the window to boot, so you weren't paying a whole lot of attention to the problem and who cares anyway? But Mrs. Graedon has to call the names of everyone who got F's and it was only you and Jesse and Jesse always gets F's but you don't, and she asks you, standing in front of the class in that haughty sort of way she always does, in that very condescending voice that rubs like sandpaper on fresh sunburn, if you'd like her to arrange a tutor for you and, well, yeah, you know about humiliation. You and every other teenager.
But, even knowing about it, and knowing you shouldn't do it, you’d had to open your mouth. You’d had to get involved even though it was Brad Decker, only the coolest kid in the whole damned school and certainly not someone who'd even know who you are and what in the world were you thinking, speaking up at a time like that? You knew, you knew, you should just sit there. With your mouth closed. But when Mrs. Graedon decided humiliating you wasn't enough to get her jollies for today, and started in on Brad, and you could tell it was getting to him, with him being a cool kid and not really used to being humiliated, being perfect and all, and he was biting his tongue and turning red, well, then you started feeling a little sorry for him and what in the world were you thinking, feeling sorry for BRAD DECKER???
It was painful how it went. First, she asks me if I need a tutor. "Danny," she says in that really nice, oh-you-poor-little-boy tone she uses when she's trying to piss me off or embarrass me, that voice with an edge to it that says she’s so superior to me that the only reason she’d even talk to me is that she’s trying to do her part to help the needy, "Danny, do you want me to assign you a tutor? Someone who can make you understand this really easy algebra better than I can? I have some little 7th graders next period and I'm sure one of them can work with you. Would you like me to ask one of them? Danny?"
She pauses, staring at me, and I stare back. She can tell I am not going to answer, so that's when she starts speaking again, an evil smirk added in with her childish inflection—she’s enjoying the crap out of this—talking to Brad.
"Brad, you got a D, and since that's not unusual for you, you always get D's, why don't I see if that 7th grader could work with you, too?
“Danny was just being lazy, just like he sometimes is. You’re not lazy, just not very bright. You could do with a regular tutor. I think I'll arrange one for you. Would you prefer a little boy or a little girl 7th grader?"
So that's when I had to do it. That's when I had to open my mouth, when I knew full well that it was a mistake with a capital M, I went ahead anyway. I went ahead because Brad was getting seriously upset and I was pissed at her anyway and what was my father going to say about an F in math, he'd be disappointed in me and, awww, fuck it.
"Mrs. Graedon," I heard myself saying, "I think both Brad and I would just love to see if one of your 7th graders could show us how to do advanced 8th grade algebra. Since you obviously can't teach us how to do it any better than where we end up with D's and F's, I can't imagine one of them knowing how to do it either, especially as they're in your class."
Mrs. Graedon marched right over to my desk, much more quickly than I thought an 85-year-old fat lady could march (well, she looked that old to me, what with that graying mustache she seemed to have and the wrinkles in her face, and she was way too heavy), leaned down to me with glaring eyes, a red face and spittle on her lips. Then here came this huge noise, and I think I heard a word. "Detention!" I think that was the word I heard. It was so loud, and screamed right in my ear, that the buzzing was a little disorienting, but I'm sure that was the word. It was the next three words, however, that shook me up more than her bellow. Those words were, "Both of you!"
Oh shit, I thought, what did I do now?
I wasn't the only one with a question. "What?" screamed Brad. "Why me, I didn't pop off like Danny did. Besides, I've got basketball practice after school. I can't go to detention."
"You laughed," explained Mrs. Graedon, visibly pleased with herself and with Brad's reaction. "You will go to detention. Today!"
"But everyone else laughed, too," said a shocked and now bright red Brad. "Besides, there's no way today. I can't. I've got practice and then a dentist appointment. My mom is picking me up. I can't."
"You should think about things like that before laughing at your teacher. Detention tonight, and now, since you think it’s your right to argue with me, tomorrow night, too. That will give you lots of time to think about your unruly behavior and how you can improve your general deportment. And since you're stuck there two nights, it's only fair
that Danny be there too, to commiserate with you.” She grinned her evil grin as she turned to look at me, and added, “Both nights."
Mrs. Graedon and I don't much like each other.
Brad shot a truly murderous glare at me. Well, he may not have known me before (although he did know my name. That surprised me.) but he sure knew me now. Not good, not good at all.
After class, Brad headed up to talk to Mrs. Graedon while I unobtrusively tried to leave the class. I overheard Brad repeating, "But everyone laughed."
"But everyone else didn't get a D," retorted Mrs. Graedon smugly. I was going to go back to point out that that was a total non sequitur, but decided, belatedly, that maybe that sparkling insight wouldn't change her mind and that I'd done enough damage for one day and that I should do what I should have done earlier: just put a sock in it.
Chapter 2
I was pushed up against the lockers, hard, soon after I left class. Brad was scowling down at me with nothing I wanted to know anything about shooting out of his eyes.
"Fuckhead. What do you think you're doing?" he yelled at me. "I'm in big trouble. My parents are already all over me for my grades, and now detention on top of it? I was supposed to get a better grade on the next quiz, and I get a damn D, and I'll probably sit out my next game if I miss two practices because I’m in detention, and my mom’ll have to wait till that’s over to pick me up, and I'll be late for the dentist appointment, and it's all because you're such a fucking asshole. I'm going to kill you."
This last pleasantry was mentioned as he was drawing back his fist to begin his announced program of mayhem. As he was a couple of inches taller than I and perhaps 30 pounds heavier, as he was an athlete and, to put it as succinctly as possible, I wasn't, and as he was mad as hell and I was scared shitless, the result of his fist flying unimpeded at my face wasn't going to be something I'd remember fondly when I was recalling my days at Carver Middle School. If I lived to remember them.
Perhaps it was my quivering demeanor, perhaps it was the look of abject terror on my face, perhaps it was that my only sign of defense was to tightly close my eyes, I don't know, but in the end he didn't throw the punch. He stopped, took his left hand off my neck where it had been keeping me propped in an upright position, and I promptly slumped to the floor. He looked down at me disgustedly, said, "Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it," turned and steamed away. The farther he walked, the lower his shoulders drooped in dejection.
I should have stayed there, but I felt awful for him, this golden boy for whom everything should go perfectly, and despite my fear that he might change his mind about the murder, I got up as quickly as my still trembling legs would permit and ran stumblingly after him.
"Brad,” I called as I got nearer to him, and he stopped. I ran up to him and faced him. That required screwing up my courage, but I did it. My voice, when I spoke, was still a little hesitant because this was a boy I hadn’t ever had the nerve to talk to, and doing so took every bit of nerve I had, and that was on top of knowing how pissed he was at me. "Brad, I'm sorry. I really am. Sorry. I didn't know you'd get detention. I never would have said anything if I'd known that. Actually, I said it so that...." It suddenly occurred to me, much too late, that if I said I was feeling sorry for his humiliation he might be madder than he already was. You're not supposed to have protective emotions like that for other boys, and you're absolutely not supposed to talk about them if you do.
The pause lengthened. "You said it why?" Brad eventually asked.
"I was mad and wanted to make her mad. I didn't think anyone else would get involved. Graedon and I have been fighting all year, you’ve seen that. It’s been going on since I pointed out that problem she did wrong on the board. She's been trying to embarrass me ever since. She's an evil witch and if you get on her bad side, you never get off it. I just snapped today. She made me angry and I snapped. I can't believe I got you in trouble too, and I'm really, really sorry."
"Fuckin' lot of good that does me. Detention and a D. Oh yeah, I can hardly wait for the fun times at my house tonight."
I took a deep breath. "Brad, I can help you with the math. If you let me, we can get your grade up."
"Yeah, that's just what I need. You and your F are going to be a big help. Right." He looked disgusted.
"I don't actually get F's in there. Even with her grading me as hard as she can and marking me off if my handwriting isn't neat enough or if I leave three spaces between problems instead of two, shit like that, I'm still getting an A–. I just wasn't thinking about math on this quiz and made a silly mistake. I do know this crap, and I can help."
Brad didn't say anything for a minute. He was staring at me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Then, when he spoke, he said, "Aw shit, what harm can it do? You can start in detention tonight. But I'm hopeless. You'll see."
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So that's how I got to work with Brad Decker. Not that I'd planned it or anything like that. I was much too shy to do something like that. Brad was the school hero. As 8th graders, we were the top class in school. There’s always a top kid at school, too, the most popular, the one everyone knows and admires, and that was Brad. He the top athlete. He starred in all the sports we had, playing the glamour positions, and to top that off, he was blond, well-built, very good looking and didn't have the stuck-up personality most guys who had all that going for them did. Girls talked about him at lunch, whispering and looking and giggling and blushing, and the ones who weren’t shy were all over him as much as he’d permit them to be; he dated some of them, dated as much as a 13-year-old can, but seemed to steer clear of a steady relationship with any one. He ran with the popular crowd and was pretty much the top dog of that group. Did I mention he was good looking?
I, on very much the other hand, was a nobody. Or less. I was very ordinary looking, with a mop of uncooperative curly brown hair approximating the color of mud that did what it wanted to do rather than what I wanted it to. I was much more into books than sports due to an innate clumsiness I think I inherited from my father, and shy to the point where I didn't have many friends and no really close ones. If I hung with any group at school, it was the "loser" crowd, and I wasn't really even part of that group. To top off this resume of attributes, I was starting to consider, in an intellectual sort of way, the possibility that I might be gay. I had had no experiences with either sex so this wasn't a certainty, but I sure thought a lot more about boys than girls. I sure noticed them more. They interested me more. Especially good looking ones. Which meant, especially Brad. But he was so far beyond what I could aspire to, he really didn't belong in my world and only occasionally entered my fantasies. The class system was alive and well in our middle school. Brad was firmly established at the peak of the top tier. I was somewhere beneath and looking up to see what was happening in the lowest. People in my position considered the possibility of associating with someone in Brad's position about the same as winning the lottery, only less.
At thirteen, according to the books I'd read, I was pretty normal, which meant my hormones were bouncing through my veins like popcorn in a theater corn popper and I didn't have much outlet for the things they were encouraging me to do except the traditional one, home alone, in my room, the door tightly shut. At school I had become very efficient at covering myself up with notebooks, untucked shirts, carelessly hung jackets and the like as any odd fleeting thought or incidental contact could arouse me in about three seconds flat. It occurred to me that if I was going to be spending a couple hours this afternoon and tomorrow with Brad Decker, BRAD DECKER! for God's sake, I was potentially in for a world of hurt. I'd be sitting next to him, leaning over a textbook with him, feeling his breath on my neck, probably rubbing shoulders with him, oops—something just came up. What if it did that this afternoon? I'd had a crush on him for three years in a forbidden-fruit sort of way, just dreaming, not even hoping. I had a crush on several very attractive boys, but with Brad, it was different. It was bigger. More intense. What would happen if I were forced to be close to him?
I was going to be occupying his personal space, and he’d be occupying mine.
What was I going to do? What if what comes naturally came naturally and Brad noticed?
I was going to be a dead man.
When my last class was over, I gathered my things and headed to my locker. There, I deposited everything but my math book, a notebook that still had a lot of empty pages in it and a couple of pencils. Then it was off to the detention room.
Detention was held down in the basement in a large classroom that was no longer used for teaching. It was a gloomy, rather dilapidated place that smelled of mildew and unwashed, stressed out teenagers. The detention duty was shared by all the teachers and I was in luck. Today's guardian of the doomed, meaning us problem children, was one of my favorite teachers, Mr. Bloomberg. He taught art, a subject I enjoyed with enthusiasm if not talent; I think Mr. Bloomberg liked my spirit and ignored my lack of demonstrable skill. As so many students were anything but enthusiastic in his class and wasted everyone's time fooling around, he appreciated my interest and perhaps for that reason liked me as well.
I approached him at the front of the room. He seemed puzzled to see me, which wasn't surprising as I was a very low key kid in school, practically invisible in fact, and never had been to detention before. I told him I was going to work with Brad on math and asked if it was all right with him if we spoke quietly while trying to do some problems. He OKed it, so we were going to be home free, at least today.
Brad came in looking pissed, his entire posture saying he didn’t want to be there, and I motioned him to join me in the rear corner of the room. He did so, plopped his backpack on an empty desk next to us and sat down. He was angry and unhappy and looked gorgeous.
Mr. Bloomberg called roll, then told us all to do homework, stay in our seats, not make any noise and we'd be released in an hour and a half. Anyone causing a disturbance would be given additional detentions.
I spoke quietly. "Brad, I told Mr. Bloomberg we'd be working together and he said we could talk. First off, can you tell me what your problem is? I know you're smart. You're in advanced math so you must have done well in math before. What's going on?"
Brad looked at me, and although his eyes were difficult to read I could tell he was debating with himself about how much he wanted to say to me, maybe just how he wanted to say it. After all, we didn't know each other, I'd indirectly caused him a lot of trouble today, I'd got an F while he'd got a D, and perhaps worst of all, I was a dork and he was practically king of the school. At 13, kids were afraid dorkishness could rub off. Their reputations and social standing could be destroyed just by talking to a kid like me. And just how much help could I be, with my F and all? Then, I could see a change in his eyes, almost as if he'd decided, what the hell, why not give this a try?
"I don't know," he answered, not angrily as I was expecting but sort of dispiritedly. "I've never really liked math, but it wasn't that hard for me. But this year, I just don't get a lot of it. Everything's different. Unknowns and equations and reducing improper fractions and negative quantities and square roots... it's just all difficult."
"We're not being helped much by Mrs. Graedon, either," I replied, attempting to be supportive, trying to show him I was on his side and that I agreed with him and didn’t think it was his fault he was having problems. "She explains things in a way that makes them harder to understand, not easier. Take today's quiz, for example. She had us reducing equations with parenthetical quantities on both sides, and she only touched briefly on how to do that during the week, and even then didn't explain it very well."
"Yeah," Brad agreed, with some emotion. "I couldn't remember what you're supposed to do first."
"Well then, here, let me give you a trick my father showed me. He said there are several ways to remember how do to this, but the one I found easiest to remember was, when you have a complex equation or function with parentheses and raised powers and such, you use the phrase 'Please Expect My Dear Aunt Sally.' You can remember that, can't you?"
"Huh?" Brad asked, looking at me like maybe my mind had blown a gasket or something.
I held back a giggle, but did smile. "Well, you have to decide which operations to do in what order to get the right answer. That's what the phrase tells you. It stands for Parentheses, then Exponents, then Multiply and Divide, then Add and Subtract. So, looking at the problem, first you do everything inside the parentheses, then you do all the operations involving exponents, then any multiplying and dividing, then finish up with any adding and subtracting. If you do it in that order, you end up with the right answer."
I then wrote out a problem like the ones we were quizzed on today and had him work it out. I wrote P E M D A S on the top of the page for him to refer to, and in a surprisingly quick time, glancing up occasionally to where I'd jotted the reminder, he got the right answer. I then made up three more equations, and he got them all perfectly.
"Hey," he said with a smile, "this isn't so hard. Why didn't she show us this?"
" 'Cause she's an asshole," I snorted. "Now let's see what else you're struggling with."
For the next hour we reviewed the book, and he kept asking questions about almost everything we'd learned this term. He always seemed to be caught up on just one or two points he'd missed from Mrs. Graedon, which in algebra can be deadly as the trick is mostly following weird rules. I would explain things, and he'd get a great smile as he caught on to something that had stumped him before. He kept saying, "Wow, now I get it." But that smile! It lit up the room. He kept grabbing my arm, his enthusiasm bubbling over and his great beaming smile lighting his face, and I was having the problem I hoped I wouldn't. In a big way, if you get my meaning. Well, in as big a way as I was capable of, being 13 and all. Luckily, I'd come prepared. I'd brought my jacked and it had been strategically draped across my lap. It's always a good idea to plan ahead.
Brad had lots of questions and by the time the hour and a half was over we'd only got about a quarter of the way through what had been covered in class so far this year. But Brad was really happy. And there seemed to be something, some chemistry or emotion or I don’t know what but something, building between us. I felt really comfortable with him, other than of course the hard personal problem I was dealing with. When Mr. Bloomberg let us go, Brad jumped up and stood waiting for me. That was a little awkward, of course, but standing up with my jacket held casually and apparently unintentionally in front of me, I was able to walk out with him without stopping traffic or scaring small children or their mothers, or, much more importantly, causing young teenagers to point and laugh.
"Hey, this went great," Brad said as we reached the lockers. "I didn't think I was smart enough to get this stuff, but you make it almost easy. Thanks a lot for the help, man."
"Brad, I want to apologize again for getting you into this mess. I feel really bad about it. And you might even miss a game because of me. I'm sorry, and I'm glad you're being so nice about it. You don't have to be. It was all my fault."
"No, no, no prob, man," he reassured me. "It's only a practice scrimmage this week and the coach won't give me any shit anyway. My parents will be a little angry about the detention, but when I tell them how algebra is making sense to me, that I now really understand it, they'll forget about everything else. In the long run, this detention will be a real help. We're doing this again tomorrow, right?" When I nodded, he smiled and went on. "Thanks again, Danny, but now I've got to book." With that, he was off running for the door.
I opened my locker. I couldn't stop smiling. His energy and spirit were like a little kid's and his face had been radiant when he had thanked me. I wasn't going to have a shortage of fantasy material to make my evening enjoyable tonight.
Chapter 4
The next morning in math Brad came up to me to chat before class and was really friendly. There was something about him, something I didn't understand but something that made my shyness go away. I found I didn't have any problem just talking and responding to him. Weird.
After classes that afternoon Brad was already in the corner of the detention room waiting for me. I grinned at him, then walked up to the front of the room. Tonight's Director of Decorum was Mrs. Odom, a young first year teacher who always tried to be friends with all the kids. I figured this would be easy, and it was. She readily agreed that Brad and I could work together and even said we could ask her for help if we needed it. I thanked her and went back to the corner.
"What did your parents say, you know, about the detention and the D on the quiz?" I asked.
"Ah, they weren't too bad. Sort of like I expected. When I told them how much I'd learned, working with you, they forgot all about everything else. Dad wants me to get an athletic scholarship after high school and keeps telling me I have to keep my grades up to get one from a big school, and I have to start now. He's been on my ass about algebra. He’s been pissed, but he doesn’t know squat about math and hasn’t been able to help at all. He was really pleased when I told him you were helping me and it was all making sense now."
"That's great Brad, but remember, I'm just showing you what Graedon should have. You're doing all the work learning it," I pointed out. "You're really very good at this."
"Naaa. I'm really not. I didn't get it at all from Graedon. You're a better teacher than she is, you know? All she does is gripe and piss and moan at us, then make sarcastic remarks when we have problems, which makes us nervous. It’s difficult to learn when you’re scared. You keep encouraging me, and you make it understandable. I don't know why, but you seem to really want me to learn the stuff, and for some reason, that helps. I'd just given up on it. I thought I was too stupid to learn it." He looked a little embarrassed, then smiled at me again, and got a look it his eyes, his very deep blue eyes. I couldn't quite interpret it, but the look made my stomach feel funny. I started feeling very uneasy all of a sudden and didn't know why.
"Let's look at where we stopped yesterday," I said, sitting down and fumbling with my books, finding my math text; a couple of the books ended up on my lap.
We worked together, I pointed out a couple things, we kept talking back and forth and way too soon Mrs. Odom was telling everyone they could go. Brad seemed almost reluctant to stop. I had to admit, it hadn't seemed like an hour and a half. I guess sitting there working with Brad, being that close to and comfortable with him, time can pass like that. The feelings I'd had yesterday of getting to know him and liking being with him had continued to grow. He seemed very comfortable with me, too, but perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part. Maybe I just wanted it to be true. After all, he was a star, I was a dork. That's a very important divide at 13.
"Well, at least we're done with detention," I said lightly.
"Yeah, but we've still got a couple chapters to cover. Hey, could we do this again tomorrow? I could come over to your house after practice." He got a pleading look in his eyes and seemed so eager that it was funny and I had to laugh. Then I sobered up and remembered whom I was talking to.
"Are you sure you want to do that? You know, we got stuck in here because of my big mouth and temper, but now, you can get anyone to help you. You don't need to hang around with me for this."
Brad looked at me and it seemed he got sort of angry right away. "What are you talking about?" he asked, a little heat in his voice. "Nobody's going to help me like you are. Do you want to stop doing it? I don't. I want to keep going. You can keep doing this, can't you?" His tone changed. "Please?"
"Sure, if you want to. I'll keep going if you want to."
Was he kidding? This was great! I loved doing it. "I'll need to give you directions. Here, I'll draw you a map." I was opening my notebook when I felt his hand on my arm.
"You don't need to do that. I know where you live. I'll be over right after practice tomorrow. Should be around 4:45. That OK?"
"Sure," I said. "See you then."
He smiled at me and said, "I'd give you a ride home but my mom's taking me to the mall to get some stuff and then we're going out to eat. So OK, see you tomorrow." And with that he was gone.
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I went to my locker, dropped off my books, stuck some different ones in my backpack, grabbed it and my jacket and started home. I lived about a mile from school and always walked. I could have ridden my bike but with a heavy backpack it was awkward and I didn't mind walking anyway. I always sort of wished I had someone to walk with, but pushed that thought to the back of my mind as much as possible.
When I got home my father greeted me as usual and we sat for a while talking about what had gone on at school. I have to say right out, I'm very close to my dad. We talk about things most teenagers don't discuss with their fathers, like what's happening in my life and my feelings and stuff like that. Almost everything's okay to talk about, although sex has never come up. That we don't discuss. Not that there’s anything to discuss, unfortunately. And I hadn't had the courage yet to talk about maybe being gay, but as I don't know what's what with that anyway, it's always seemed premature to talk about it with anyone. But I probably will when I'm ready, and I don't think I'll have a problem doing it. I can discuss anything that is troubling me. I really like him as well as love him, and we're really close, as I said. I don't hate him or feel rebellious against him or anything like that. He's smart and affectionate and supportive and, well, really cool. I’m closer to him than anyone else in my life.
And he's the only one I can talk to like a best friend. He knew about me working with Brad, we'd discussed what had happened yesterday, and so I told him he'd be coming over tomorrow to finish the work he needed help with.
"OK," he said, "Why don't you go make sure your room looks good, just like you want it to, so you can work there tomorrow."
I agreed, and after making sure I couldn't get him anything, headed upstairs to do that. First, of course, when I got there, there was something more urgent to attend to. An hour and a half of being close to Brad had increased about ten fold the normal urgency I always felt this time of day.
I didn't have to worry any about being interrupted, so closing the door was more a formality than necessity. I always changed out of my school clothes when I got home. Closing my door, then undressing, was sort of a ritual, a preparation, that in and of itself got me excited. By the time I was undressed, I was ready. From ready to explosion didn't take very long. I'm 13.
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All next day I was buzzed. I was looking forward eagerly to Brad coming over, but was nervous at the same time. I guess you could call it a dreadful anticipation. This was the most popular kid in school, coming over to my house! He sure hadn't acted the slightest bit stuck up with me, but he had a lot of friends, all of whom were popular and a lot of whom were probably rich, maybe even he was rich, I didn't know, and my family certainly wasn't. We just had a small house in a lower middle class neighborhood that for sure wasn't anything special. My room was small, and, oh my God, where was Brad going to sit? I'd have to think about this. I couldn't sit on the bed with him. I'd be hard as a steel pipe in a second, and he'd see. The small desk I had in one corner was only big enough for one chair. That wouldn't work at all. Maybe we could work on the floor. There was room for that, we wouldn't be so close together, the bed wouldn't be wiggling every time either of us moved, that might be a lot better.
And then a thought jumped out of nowhere. It was: Brad knows where I live! Huh? That didn't make any sense. Why would he have any idea where I lived? He didn't even know I existed till a couple days ago. Or did he? He seemed to have known my name. I was used to being totally anonymous at school. This was confusing. It seemed a little strange. It seemed even a bit unsettling.
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In math class the next morning, Mrs. Graedon announced a big test next Monday. She looked at Brad when she said, ". . . and this one will cover everything we've studied so far." The class groaned its mandatory groan and she glared at us, then began talking about imaginary numbers. I think. It’s difficult to be sure exactly what it is that’s being talked about, with her.
After class, Brad reminded me he'd be over this afternoon and I told him I was looking forward to it. He smiled and said, "Me too. See ya then." I watched him as he headed off down the hall for his next class. He really was gorgeous.
I was waiting at the door when Brad arrived. I introduced him to my father before we went upstairs. I asked him if he wanted a Coke or anything and he readily accepted one. He said his practices always left him thirsty.
When I brought two Cokes upstairs he was looking around my room. It was rather plain and I was a little embarrassed about it. I didn't have the walls covered with posters, I didn't have a computer, about the only thing I had were lots of books I'd read, a small CD player and a radio. But Brad didn't seem to notice the Spartan condition.
He sat on the bed and drank about half his Coke. Then he asked the question I figured he would.
"What's the matter with your dad?"
I expected it so wasn't surprised. "He’s had diabetes most of his life, but it finally got worse. He's been in a wheelchair for several years, but two years ago it affected his eyes and now he's blind as well." I said this very simply without any emotion. Emotion, I'd discovered, always evoked a really sympathetic, unnatural response, which always made me feel awkward.
"God, that's awful. I'm really sorry." Brad looked like he meant it, that he felt badly about what I'd said and he seemed genuine. He seemed to be reacting to my father's problems, not feeling sorry for me. I couldn't help but like him for that.
"Yeah, it is awful, but he does the best he can. He stays cheerful, and he's just this great guy. If you ever get the chance to talk to him, you'll see. We talk a lot, and do stuff. When you're around him, you sort of forget about the problems he has. He's just Dad, you know?" I needed to stop talking. I was sounding a little funny, some huskiness was creeping into my voice. I looked around the room, at everything but him, and after a pause said, "Well, you want to get to work?"
We settled down on the carpet and started working on the rest of the book, the stuff we hadn't had time to complete in detention. The camaraderie we seemed to have developed in working together for two days in detention was still present, and without the detention room restrictions, this time we were able to make the studying fun. Within a short time I was teasing him, he was being sarcastic right back, and we were actually doing math and laughing at the same time. Who’d a thunk it? Within a shorter time than I'd imagined we'd finished, and I was sorry it had to come to an end.
From what I could see, Brad might have felt the same way. He closed his book and then started fidgeting. I could tell he wanted to say something, but was hesitating. Finally, I guess the pressure got too great for him. Brad was always a straightforward, shoot from the hip guy. Holding back wasn't in his character.
"Danny, can I ask you a question?" Brad asked with a very serious look in his eye. This made me nervous, but what was I supposed to do, say no?
"Sure."
"Well, this is a little embarrassing, but...." He looked very uncomfortable, but Brad wasn't one to let something being difficult stop him. "Danny, I really appreciate the help you've given me. I mean, it's been great and you didn't have to. You put yourself out for me. And you'll never know how much difference it makes to me. So, well, I kind of feel in your debt, you know? So I'm going to talk to you about something, and it's difficult, I don't want to hurt your feelings, and I know this might, but I'm going to go ahead anyway."
He paused to take a breath, then said, "Danny, you don't seem to have any friends at school, and you're this really great guy with a cool sense of humor, smarter than almost anyone in school and cute and, and...." He blushed a little, probably embarrassed when he realized he said that, but then plowed ahead. "Well, I don't understand why you're such a loner. You could be one of the most popular kids there, but you just stay to yourself. Why?"
I didn’t answer right away. I had to maintain my composure, and talking about myself was always difficult. Eventually, I said, "You're right. This is embarrassing. I don't know what to say."
"Danny, I want to be your friend." Brad put his hand on my forearm and looked at me right in my eyes. "I want you to be my friend." He was so direct, so focused, it was sort of intimidating. Brad wanted to be my friend? Wow. But this was unknown territory for me. I didn't know what to say. He was waiting though, looking at me. I had to say something.
"I'd like that a lot. I really like you, um, I mean, being around you. But Brad, you don't really know me. And I don't much like talking about myself."
"Well, I like you. We get along with each other and all. I'd really like hanging with you. I want to be your friend, I want to hang around with you more. I think you're nuts for backing off from people, pushing them away. You're smart, you're kind and considerate, you’re, well, you’re fun to be with." He stopped. This was a strange conversation. Kids aren't usually so open with each other. They keep their emotions and inner feelings to themselves. They protect themselves that way.
What could I say? He was looking at me so intently, his eyes were so deep as he looked at me, I couldn't just blow this off. I had to talk to him. He was waiting for a response.
"Look Brad, I'd love to have lots of friends, go to parties, go on dates, sleep over at friends houses, all that stuff, but I just don't have much time for friends. I guess I can talk about it if you want me to."
I paused, hoping for I don't know what, maybe a major earthquake to interrupt us, but Brad just kept staring at me, the earth remained still, and I had to continue.
"I used to have friends, not a lot because I've always been shy and stuff, but I had some friends. Then, when my father's eyesight failed, everything changed. He couldn't work any longer. He didn't have any sort of disability insurance which meant mom had to go to work. She doesn't have a college degree and had never worked before so all she could get were minimum wage jobs, and, because we had some big bills from dad's eye problems, just to pay off the debts and make ends meet, she ended up having to work two jobs.
“So, instead of being a carefree kid, I was suddenly left with having to do all the work around the house that my father couldn't do and my mother was too tired to do." This was starting to sound mushy and sad and like I was sorry for myself, which was one of the reasons I didn't like to talk about it. A lot of people were a lot worse off than I was. What I was saying sounded more like a kid whining than anything else. I was 13. I should be able to take this responsibility in stride without whining about it.
Brad kept looking at me, not much expression visible on his face, but seemed to know there was more, and all he said was, "OK, go on."
"Well," I said, "I want to go to college, and my parents want me to go, too. The only way I can do that is if I can get a full scholarship somewhere, so I have to study hard enough to keep getting A's. In everything. If I don't start now, I won't be prepared for high school. On top of that, I have to do all the housework, and the yard work, and cook the meals and sort of take care of my father, you know, at least be here for him. This really doesn't leave me any time for friends. And I don’t have any money to go to the mall or movies, either. The friends I used to have would ask me to do things and I didn't have the time or the money to do them or, at first, the energy because doing all that work I hadn't done before was more than I expected. Doing all that and worrying about my dad and everything and trying to get all A’s, well, it just wore me out. I'm used to it now, but after always saying no to my friends, they just stopped asking and finally stopped hanging with me. I'm not surprised. I didn't have any time for them. So, when they stopped hanging with me, and me being shy and finding it difficult to make new friends, and not having time for friends anyway and. . . ." My voice sort of trailed off, and I looked down at my feet.
Brad kept looking at me, and then did something I'll never forget. He stood up, moved closer, sat down next to me and hugged me.